


Misconception

by CrumblingAsh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bullying, Chubby Bruce, Fat Shaming, M/M, News Media, Protective Bruce, Protective Tony, Tony Needs a Hug, tony bakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:24:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5565625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce just came out of his room for breakfast, but what he gets are news channels pulling up his second grade yearbook picture, callously speculating about his weight and person and ability to be a superhero. </p>
<p>All stemming from an afternoon, almost two years ago, when Tony had tentatively shoved a plate of chocolate cupcakes towered with green icing in Bruce's face and said, <i>"I need you to do me a favor and eat these."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Misconception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nina_monk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nina_monk/gifts).



* * *

 

 

When Bruce walks through the common room on his way to the kitchen that morning, a news station has routinely found its way onto the television, and there’s a picture of him splayed across the screen. Or rather, a picture of seven-year-old him – a picture of _Robert_.

He freezes at the sight of it.

It’s from second grade, the classic steel-grey background combined with the solid white of his shirt almost washing him out. His hair is wildly curly, and under the thick brown rim of his glasses, the television’s high definition pulls out the faintest traces of the bruise around his eye that he himself had covered with make-up that morning for pictures. The smile on his face is a little shy, a little forced, and pulls more than a little attention to the fact that his cheeks are round and his chin almost double.

_Fatty Banner,_ the other kids had always called him. _One more lap, Robert!_ , his gym teachers had always urged, desperate to take it away. _I made these cookies just for you. I know how hard Mondays can be,_ his mother had always presented with a smile.

 “...days, people believe that eating disorders mean that the person _doesn’t_ eat, or if they do, that they vomit it all back up. But anorexia and bulimia, which I’m sure you’ve heard of, are not the only eating disorders there are.” There’s no visual source of the words, the voice coming out from behind his – _Robert’s –_ picture. There’s a blue ticker beneath the image, Bruce realizes, but without his glasses, he’s too far to read what it says. “I just finished working on a book titled _‘Eating To Make Me_ ’, which will be available in stores on December eighteenth, that explores the idea that what we currently refer to as “coping mechanisms” – specifically, eating food to fill some kind of emotional void – are actually different types of eating disorders that go undiagnosed because we refuse to acknowledge them. I have an entire chapter dedicated to a disorder that I have labeled ‘More Syndrome’, which examines men in particular who eat and eat so that they can gain mass and become a more prominent figure amongst other men. I believe that this is what we are seeing in Doctor Banner’s case, both here as a child and now, where he works with a team of superheroes and goes generally unrecognized-.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Bruce jumps slightly as Clint’s annoyed cry cuts over the television’s audio – he hadn’t even realized the archer, sprawled across the couch that faces away from Bruce, had been in the room. A remote waves in the air, Clint’s fingers smashing violently at the buttons as he aims it toward the tv. “Where the hell do they find these “experts”, anyway?”

The channel blips, Robert’s picture disappearing from the screen with a snap. The relief that pulls in Bruce’s chest lasts only the half-second it takes for another news station to pop up with its own picture of him, floating to the side of the screen next to a table of four blonde-haired, angry looking people.

This picture is new; Bruce recognizes it immediately. In it, he’s wearing the green button-down Natasha had given him for Christmas in July, the material snug around his middle, an aesthetically nice contrast to the dark blue jeans Tony’s always harping on him to wear. This is from three days ago, when Steve had quietly asked if Bruce would come down to the Farmer’s Market with him, because no one else had wanted to get up that early. Bruce hadn’t really been outside in the city for anything other than battles or a quick drive – _for good reason_ – but Steve had looked so hopeful when he’d asked, and Bruce doesn’t like turning down genuine requests for his company from his friends anymore.

He hadn’t noticed any photographers on their walk – he hadn’t even really been paying attention.

“The buttons sure are straining on the shirt!” One of the commentators – an older man with a bright red tie – chortles from his seat on the screen. “One wrong move and it’s sayonara to that expensive material.”

“Stark’s good for it,” another commentator says with a shrug, grinning a little. “Honestly, though, I can’t tell – is he normally this … husky, or is he about to turn into the Hulk?”

“ _Husky?_ ” The woman beside him shrieks. “Honey, call it what it is – that is _fat_. Borderline obese, even – and it’s disgusting.”

His picture shrinks a little and slots to the side, followed instantly by singular pictures of the rest of the men on the team – Steve, Tony, Clint, and Thor, all standing impressively in civilian getup, looking more like casually posed models than men unknowingly photographed.

“This is a real problem,” the last woman intones – unlike the others, there’s no humor in her voice, and her expression is intensely serious. “Obesity has always been an epidemic in this country, but in this era of ‘political correctness’, it’s gotten worse. There are _school children_ who are overweight who have come to ‘embrace’ and accept their bodies as perfectly fine, parents who refuse to put their daughters on diets for fear of triggering anorexia – _doctors_ are careful not to use terms such as ‘fat’ or ‘overweight’ for fear of lawsuits, and that’s for health! Look, these so-called ‘superheroes’ are an issue all on their own, but people look up to them, aspire to be like them, and being that sort of role model comes with a certain level of responsibility. How can we expect people – our children – to want to take better care of themselves, when we offer them an idol like Doctor Banner, who clearly _doesn’t?”_

They all nod in synchronized agreement on the screen. “It’s unfortunate that the kids like this Hulk monster so much,” the first man adds, “but as it is what it is, you’d think Banner would want some positivity attached to his name, do some good for all the bad that he does as that thing.”

“I hate people,” he hears Clint growl, watches the swinging of the remote around wildly to switch the channel again.

An entertainment station has Robert’s picture and Bruce’s own side by side (just … wow), and the host is cracking a smile so wide his face looks plastic. “Today, we in America are asking ourselves – do we need a fat superhero? Can we rely on someone who can’t really run that far, who may need a break in the middle of another alien invasion, who could develop hea-.”

“Clint, I told you not to turn that back on – _Bruce?_ ” Steve’s mortified voice makes him start, his eyes swinging from the television to the younger man even as Clint releases a surprised yelp of his own.

The captain’s face goes pale even as Bruce watches, the tightness around his eyes relaxing in horror as the television continues to play off-color jokes in the background. He makes an aborted move, as if he wants to step closer to Bruce, or touch him, or say something comforting, but all it does it draw Bruce’s attention to the two plates Steve is holding in his hands, and the high stacks of waffles on both of them. The entryway to the kitchen is only a few feet behind him.

“Bruce …” Steve tries again, and Clint finally cuts off the tv. The immediate silence is loud and telling. “I’m sorry. They don’t have any right to be saying things like that. They _shouldn’t_ be saying things like that.”

“I can get them taken care of,” Clint mumbles. “I have connections, man. The word, just say it.”

He just offers them both a reassuring smile and nods toward the plates. “Tony still in the kitchen?”

They both blink at him doubtfully, before Steve moves a little to the side to give him room to pass. “Yeah.”

Bruce makes sure to nudge Steve a little as he walks by, the contact of their bodies blossoming warmth upon his skin, grinning as his friend chuffs in response. They start talking again once he’s past them, quiet murmurings that are probably very heated, but he’s nearing the brink of the kitchen opening, and their voices begin to fade out as his attention focuses in on the soft sounds of rubber against ceramic and the scent of muted sugar mixed with blueberries.

Tony is facing the counter, his right shoulder shifting in rhythm as he mixes whatever is in the bowl in front of him.

For a second, Bruce just watches.

Tony Stark had been born to create things, his hands nothing less than crafters of scientific magic – even his most innocent, absentminded fiddlings often end with something moving on its own, as much to his own surprise as anyone else’s. There’s always a sense of calmness when he works, as if he’s gone to a nirvana and wants for nothing. Bruce had seen it their first time working together inside of the lab in SHIELD’s helicarrier, had been utterly enraptured and eased by the way the man had become an embodiment of the work they had been doing.

And Bruce had seen how quickly it had all fallen apart after New York, after Killian and the Mandarin – how Tony had tried to use it to craft a shield around himself, weapons to defend against the sky and his own suffocating paranoia.

“I already have a team working on it,” Tony says suddenly, voice low – Bruce doesn’t jump. It’s been months since he’s been able to sneak up on the other man. “By the end of the day, I’ll have people out of their jobs and the entire press circuit reformed. Just give me the day, Bruce, and I’ll fix this.”

Tony doesn’t turn away from the counter, but his tone is tense and edgy, and he can see the way the turns of the mixing spoon are just a tad too harsh.

“Clint’s already sworn retaliation if I ask. I think he and Steve are conspiring.” he responds with a shrug, keeping his eyes on Tony’s back. His shoulders are a little high, a straight line instead of a relaxed slope; the agitation seeps from him in tiny waves that will only grow larger the more time he gives himself to think. “I wouldn’t mind if they stopped using that old school picture, though.”

“Done.” It’s immediate, and the stirring in the bowl becomes a little jerky. “So done. I’ll find out who originally grabbed hold of it, too, get them spending the rest of their journalism career in a tiny Midwestern town where _nothing happens_ -.”

“Tony.”

The other man stops talking.

Bruce sighs, and finally steps into the kitchen.

There’s a difference for Tony, between working with metal and working with sugar. With his metal, it’s either made for commercial sale or for protective use – rarely, anymore, is it done solely for his own pleasure. But with sugar – it’s not like Tony can just make five dozen cookies and pitch them to the board as a new venture, or throw them at the latest villain with a taste for world domination and win the fight. Bruce isn’t even sure if Tony knows what baking does for him, but the first time he had made a cake that everyone had salivated over, his smile had been so small and so pleased that it had broken Bruce’s heart a little just to see.

“It’s okay,” he says, moving slowly until he’s a breath away from Tony’s back, invitation open but not pushing. “I’ve heard worse than what they’re saying, you know. ‘Fat’ isn’t anywhere near as bad as ‘murderer’ or ‘thing’.” Those titles sting like bullets to the chest. This one … this one is just heavy. Just really, very heavy.

The mixing bowl hits the counter with a loud smack, and Tony whirls around, brown eyes blazing as he presses against Bruce’s stomach, infuriated.

“You shouldn’t have to hear any of it!” He snarls, the spoon in his hand waving a bit to emphasize his words. “None of it is true! You’re a good man, you’re a human being, and you’re not – you’re not-.”

Bruce lifts his eyebrows. “Fat?” He finishes, and then glances down toward his stomach pointedly, where the symbol of the Black Sabbath shirt Tony had gotten him as a joke last year is stretched out in fine detail. The term tastes as sour on his tongue now as it had when he’d been seven, but as he inhales, the taste of the scent of blueberries covers it up. “You can say the word, you know. It’s not like it’s incorrect.”

Tony’s expression twists painfully. “It is the way they use it, and it makes you uncomfortable to hear it, so it’s wrong.” He huffs, then, shoulders finally falling as he twists a bit to put the spoon back into the bowl. And then he leans forward, just enough to ask, because even though they’ve been together for a year and a half and sleeping together for the past eight months, there are still so many things that Tony is skittish about taking.

Bruce wraps an arm around him and drags him in, closing his eyes in relish of the warmth and Tony’s immediately small, contented sigh. Clever fingers dance along the line of his pants, slotting themselves expertly between the waist of them and the roll of his belly, massaging into the skin there in a way that makes Bruce’s knees feel a little weak. Tony nuzzles in like a kitten, in a manner he’d completely ever deny the pleasure of doing, and Bruce soaks it in.

“If they had chosen a picture of you from New York to compare to now, instead of when you were a kid, then they’d see,” Tony says, words muffled into Bruce’s neck. He hums questioningly in return, perfectly satisfied with how they are right now. “Or maybe not – the press has always sucked. But at least other people would. They’d have to see – you’re … you’re happy.” Tony’s thumbs dig a little more firmly into his hips, pressing into the soft flesh. “That’s all. You … you _are_ happy, right? I mean, I think you are, and I like to believe that I know you pretty well by now, but my track record is not exactly stacked in my favor, so you’ll have to let me know if I’m wrong. Am I wrong?” His tone has gone from righteously angered to uncertain in the shift of a word. “Do you not like-?”

It’s on reflex that Bruce tightens his hold. “You know I do.”

_(Almost two years ago, on some day of the week Bruce hadn’t bothered to check the date of at the time, Tony had wandered up into his lab. Bruce hadn’t even realized he’d been there until a plate of chocolate cupcakes, piled high with lime-green icing, had appeared not even an inch from in front of his face. He’d jumped then, startled at the intrusion of his newly acquired … friend._

_“So I need you to do me a favor and eat these.”_

_He’d looked incredibly uncertain, his posture stiff and his eyes rapidly darting around to land anywhere but on Bruce._

_And the plate of sugar-infected cupcakes had been shaking._

_“…Where did they come from?” Bruce had asked, automatically reaching for the plate to keep it from spilling._

_“Okay, I know first-world living is still strange for you – your words, not mine! – but generally cupcakes come from a kitchen. Oven, to be more precise. They came from the oven.”_

_Bruce had rolled his eyes, putting the plate down to pluck one of the cake from it. The chocolate had been warm in his hand, and though the icing had wobbled threateningly, his mouth had salivated at the idea of eating it, his stomach even growling softly in echoing eagerness. Tony’s attention had been instantly focused on him. “Who made them?”_

_In hindsight, he should have waited for the answer, but he had suddenly been so hungry, and had bitten into it – tower of icing and all._

_Tony’s eyes had been bright and wide, watching. “I – me. I did. I made … that. These cupcakes. What do you think?”_

_The chocolate – that Tony had made – melted in his mouth, trapped under the gob of icing the oozed along his teeth. “Maybe a little less icing next time – but still good!” He’d added quickly around the thickness in his mouth as Tony’s expression threatened to fall. He had swallowed quickly, tapping the excess icing off on the plate, and had given his friend a curious look. “Who are they for?” He’d inquired, taking another bite._

_Tony had backed up a little, shrugging. “Well, you’re the only one here, so, yeah. For you? If you want them. You.”_

_The spark of warmth that had ignited in Bruce’s chest had been surprising and greedily relished. “I…yeah. I want them. If you’re sure?”_

_Eyes had rolled. “Of course I’m sure. Eat them.”)_

Now, Tony’s fingers slip out from the waist of Bruce’s pants, hands moving around to run slowly up his sides, the way he sometimes does after a nightmare or a particularly rough battle, when Bruce awakens from the Hulk to quiet instead of cheer. He burrows in a little more, stealing warmth.

“It’s okay,” Bruce murmurs again, trailing his hands down Tony’s back in kind. “I’m okay, Tony.”

“We can stop,” is said into his skin. “If you want. Or do it less. I can make less, or just for the rest of the team on movie night. We don’t have to keep it up, Bruce.”

“No,” Bruce objects firmly, and feels a twinge of anger of his own that makes the Other Guy rumble softly in his head. What Tony gets from baking, from creating something with his hands that can only bring someone joy, is weightless and breathtaking to witness. That that joy is doubled by giving those things to Bruce, by watching Bruce eat what he makes, is humbling. It’s not selfless – that Tony makes most of those things _for Bruce,_ that he wants to feed him, _take care of him_ simply because he _likes to_ , isn’t something he ever wants to lose – but he’ll be damned if he lets the media ruin this beautiful thing Tony has found to ground himself, to make it into something ugly. “I don’t want to stop, or do it less often. I want to eat everything that you make for me, and I know that Steve and Clint and Natasha and Thor do, too. We all love what you make, Tony – _I_ love what you make.” _Love how happy it makes you_. “I _am_ happy. With this, here with you. Maybe people don’t get it, but I don’t really need them to. I just want this with you. That makes – _you_ make – me happy.”

In the silence, Tony squirms against him – Bruce has yet to win the argument that if Tony can bake sweet things, then Bruce should be allowed to at least indulge in saying them every once in a while.

“Still going to go after whoever found that picture. Get them to stop using it. I’ll keep it down to one lawsuit, even.” Tony grumbles half-heartedly.

Bruce smiles quickly against his lover’s dark hair. His mom had loved that picture, _‘my sweet Robert’_. It’d be nice not to have to see it on the television every time the media feels the need to talk about him. It’s … it’s not great. “That’s fine.”

“And _God_ , this _country_ – since when do you need to fit a certain physical type to save the world?” Tony continues to rant. “Jesus Christ, what are they going to do, say you can’t save their lives because they don’t like the way you look? Do they even think? You’re a damn good superhero, even without the Hulk -  you’re a good man who does good things, and you throw yourself out into danger just as much as the rest of us.”

Bruce squeezes him a little tighter.

“…And you are _damn_ sexy, those people are blind, who even lets them talk? I can never keep my eyes off of you, you’re gorgeous.” This part is the quietest yet. “Fuck them.”

They stand like that for a few quiet seconds, Bruce wrapping Tony in his arms and Tony holding him back. It’s nice, the way Tony doesn’t vibrate anymore in anticipation of being pushed away, nice that Bruce can hold someone who wants to be there. It had taken six months of cupcakes appearing in his lab at random intervals, of fresh cookies showing up on a plate in his room on Saturday nights, of pancakes and waffles and French toast at every breakfast – and one particularly memorable mint cake on his birthday that had toppled over resulting in it being eaten in pieces – to get to this point.

The memory of the food makes Bruce’s stomach growl, and Tony laughs quietly against him.

“Sorry,” Bruce offers, feeling his face heat in an embarrassment he doesn’t really feel.

Tony plops a kiss against his chin as he steps back, and the relief he feels at the grin on the billionaire’s face almost knocks him over. “Sorry, what sorry? Just means you’re ready to eat the blueberry muffins I made for breakfast. Totally do not need a sorry, big guy.”

Bruce feels his own smile form at the return of the nickname. “I thought you made waffles?”

Tony waves him off as he bends down in front of the oven. “Waffles for everyone else, you like blueberries. And muffins. Ergo, blueberry muffins.”

Bruce glances at the tray Tony pulls out – there are six steaming, mouthwatering muffin tops gleaming brightly under the kitchen light, waiting for the sugar Tony will dust over them, because he likes it when they look pretty.

“I’m making more,” Tony adds knowingly, glancing in the direction of the mixing bowl as he dumps the muffins from the tray and onto the counter, quickly plating them. He’s still moving a little slow, scooping his fingers into the sugar with a little more hesitation than normal. “If you want them.”

Bruce decides not to go after it. Lashes take time to heal, the surprise of them even more so. Bruce's okay, but he’ll keep an eye on Tony.

“I want them,” he answers, smiling a little, and plays the game. “… If you’re sure?”

Tony rolls his eyes with a groan, shoving one of the muffins into his hands. “Of course I’m sure,” he shoots back on script, scooting the entire plate closer to Bruce. “Eat them.”

Bruce, unable to help himself at the sight, laughs and takes a bite.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I almost wrote their get-together story. This one screamed louder.
> 
> Written for [nina_monk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nina_monk) for [Science Bros Week's](http://sciencebrosweek.tumblr.com/) Secret Santa - I hope you like it!


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